Crashing wave, burning sun,
What awful wrongs have you done?
Am I aught but a chick whose time hath run?
If a molten clavier, sodden with sea salt,
Now begs forgiveness, and for the tides to halt,
What right have the strings to show a fault?
If the sand, baked with burning rays,
Should seek a refuge in less-travelled ways,
Would it truly be shielded from th' heavenly blaze?
Nay, fools, thus doth God your days conceive--
Follow the buzz of the Good Lady's weave--
Find the strand you must become in her hanging sleeve.
Crashing sun, burning wave,
What remnants of the past can I save?
Is it aught but a dank, overwebbèd cave?
You iron flowers of the modern age,
Are you there because you have a war to wage,
Or are you merely shelters for a passing sage?
You rumbling dragon of the cosmic woodland road,
Do you desire us lowly men to shoulder your load,
Or are you content with the gratitude I showed?
Say it not now, when I thirst for what you feel--
Wait rather until the bells at twilight peal--
Then may I perhaps learn at your hands what is real.
Thrashing wave, churning sun,
Why must you beat down on your faithful son?
You know it not yet, gods of old, but we are one.